


Neville, the Hero

by RiverDeNile



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, BAMF Neville Longbottom, Cabbages, Friends to Lovers, Long Live Feedback Comment Project, M/M, Minor Character Death, Not Epilogue Compliant, Post-Hogwarts, bad dancing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-12
Updated: 2017-02-12
Packaged: 2018-09-23 19:43:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,982
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9673250
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RiverDeNile/pseuds/RiverDeNile
Summary: Neville had never expected to be a hero.





	

Neville had never expected to be a hero.

His parents had been heroes, still were, even if they didn’t know it. Neville had always figured he’d somehow missed out on that gene, maybe following instead in the footsteps of his Great Aunt Bertha, who hadn’t been able to cook (she burned water), hadn’t been able to fly (her broom always went backwards), hadn’t been able to Transfigure anything (her mouse-to-teacups always scurried away), and had had the strange tendency to call everyone Dennis. She hadn’t been a hero. She’d died when her tea set picked up a modern variation of the Black Death and infected half the population of her small town. Neville had always imagined something equally undignified for himself. He imagined dying alone (because no one had ever married Great Aunt Bertha and Neville had yet to get more than a pity kiss under the mistletoe), and he imagined no one really noticing, just like no one had ever really noticed him any other time.

But then he killed Voldemort… and things changed a bit.

 

He didn’t remember much about it. It had been full on war on the heathlands of Scotland: firebolts flying every which way, people falling from brooms, people underfoot, blood and the smell of burnt hair and heather, and screams, and Neville had lost track of everyone. He’d been with Harry and Ron and Hermione. Luna was behind with the artillery units and Ginny was captaining an aerial unit. Neville should have been with the medics, but just like every other time, he ended up following Harry, because Harry was the hero - the hero who went into battle bearing the sword of Gryffindor, the hero who had bested Voldemort a time or two before. Too soon to be believed, though, they’d been separated. From time to time, Neville would see fiery red hair in the corner of his eye, but he had no way of knowing which Weasley it was, or even if it was a Weasley. Amidst the smoke, there was no way of seeing anything like Harry’s dark hair, even if he did look for it. 

He didn’t know if anyone was still alive. Sometime ago, he’d stepped over the body of Colin Creevey, and he’d had only a moment to note him as he’d been trying very hard not to be killed by a masked Death Eater who hurled _Cruciatus_ curses at him. He returned with _Avada Kadavra_ , because this was war and it was kill or be killed. When that Death Eater fell dead at his feet, he spared it little thought, because that had been his eleventh (twelfth?) kill so far and he was keen not to die himself. He stopped to breathe behind a gnarled tree in the middle of a field and found an abandoned sword sticking from the roots, glinting in the smoky sunshine. There was no one nearby to claim it and since he liked the look of it (pointy and potentially lethal), he took it with him. 

He had no idea what time it was. The sun had moved from one side of the sky to the other, and he wasn’t sure if he’d missed a day or two in between. He couldn’t be sure of anything. He couldn’t say in all confidence that he was still in Scotland.

And then he stumbled over a body (white-blond hair: Draco? Lucius?) and came face to face with Voldemort. Maybe he should have frozen, pissed his pants, run screaming, fainted dead away, but he didn’t. Maybe he should have attacked with his wand, hurled a curse, and if he had, he would have died. His magic was nowhere near as strong as Voldemort’s, not even with a hope and a prayer on Thursdays. Instead, his arm swung out and the sword caught Voldemort at his chin, slicing open a thin line. And then, as Voldemort jerked backward, Neville pulled back and lunged and ran him through the heart, coming all the way to the hilt against the man, close enough to see the surprise in his eyes, close enough to smell the murder off him, close enough to feel him buck against death. And then Neville yanked the sword up and a surprised spout of blood gurgled from the dark lord’s white lips and he _died_. Right there, an inch from Neville, so close that Neville had his blood all over his body, drenching him right down to his socks.

A minute or an hour later, someone pulled him away from the body, which had crumpled down around the sword held limply in his hand. He’d swung out with his fist, but he stopped when he saw the red hair (George, not Ron), and there was Harry, staring at him aghast, his glasses half-broken and one eye black, and behind him, Severus Snape looming closer and closer, wand at the ready.

Instinct warred against reason within Neville, but thankfully George pulled his wand from where it was now clenched between his fingers. Snape pushed him away and cast _Oblitero_ at the bloody corpse, and Neville watched as the body dissolved completely in a cloud of green smoke, leaving a burnt shadow on the trampled ground.

Snape turned to him and stared at him with dark, furious eyes for a long moment, and then said, “Good work, Mr. Longbottom.”

And that was when Neville fainted.

 

The newspapers went wild.

_The Boy Who Lived NOT The Boy Who Killed!_  
_The Sword of Longbottom!_  
_Voldemort’s End, Gryffindor’s Triumph! (and not the one you think!)_  
_Harry Potter, Ousted and Outraged! (see page 14)_  
_Neville Longbottom, the Hero!_  


Neville didn’t believe a word of it. He didn’t believe it when he woke up and Madam Pomfey cried and told him his parents would be proud. He didn’t believe it when George and Fred arrived to return his wand. He didn’t believe it when Ron and Hermione (bruised, battered, Hermione’s hair cut short, Ron’s arm in a sling) came to see him and just stared the whole time. He didn’t believe it when Dennis Creevey came, tearfully thanked him for what he’d done, and then asked for his autograph. He didn’t believe it when Professor McGonagall told him he’d be receiving the Order of Merlin, First Class. He didn’t believe it when the reporters went to his house and interviewed his Gran, who claimed she’d always known he had it in him. He didn’t believe it when Snape was quoted in the Witch’s Herald saying that he was “a young man with particular talents” who had “come a long way”. He didn’t believe it at all.

And then Harry came to see him. He looked abashed and confused and relieved and concerned, and said in a wondering voice, “That was amazing, Neville. I never could have done it.”

That was when Neville finally understood. He’d killed Voldemort. He’d actually killed _Voldemort_.

“You’re a hero,” Harry told him.

“I don’t feel like one,” Neville confessed in a whisper, and maybe that was wrong, maybe he should feel it, but Harry nodded.

“I know. I never did either.”

Neville looked at him. Harry looked tired, but the scar had faded some, and his eyes were bright and alive. He had a flush to his cheeks and maybe he was upset. So Neville asked hesitantly, “Are you angry?”

Harry let out a sharp laugh, more like a bark, and exclaimed, “Angry? Because you killed Voldemort? Neville, you have no idea how proud I am of you.”

“Of _me_?”

Harry grinned and, for some reason Neville couldn’t immediately understand, brushed his fingers back through Neville’s hair. “Yeah. Of you, Neville.”

Neville almost believed him.

 

After Neville got out of the hospital, he tried to go back and live with his grandmother, but the reporters swarmed on him and trampled his gardens. They wanted interviews and he wanted nothing more than to be left alone to process. He’d killed people and now people thought he was a hero. It wasn’t normal. He needed a moment to think.

Rita Skeeter, denied an interview with him, wrote a lengthy piece about the rivalry between the former Boy-Who-Lived and the current Boy-Who-Killed and pegged them as bitter enemies, and others picked up the story as fact. Every week, there was some rumour that they’d been seen argueing or fighting or even duelling. Or they were avoiding each other because of the outright hatred between them. The jealousy, the rage, the rivalry.

Neville couldn't make sense of it. He had never said or done anything to indicate Harry was anything other than his friend, and lately they were even better friends, because Harry already knew all this hero mumbo-jumbo and Neville had no idea. He really wasn’t prepared for all this shite, people looking in his garbage, talking to his neighbours, buying his old Transfigurations notebooks. He wasn’t used to people looking at him. Harry talked him through it, told him what to say, what not to say, how to incinerate his garbage irreversibly.

They spent most of their time together, actually. Neville was usually at Harry’s new flat in Aberdeen rather than his Gran’s. His Gran was off and busy with her new daytime talk show, and Neville hated being in the house alone and hated being in the house at all. He always felt small and fat and useless in that house, and with the reporters outside, tracking his every move, it wasn’t particularly comfortable.

So Neville moved in with Harry, and the reporters didn’t quite know what to make of that at all.

They didn’t treat each other like heroes or Boys-Who-Anything. It was nice. It was quiet. It was comfortable. He liked it. Neville converted the roof to a large garden, complete with a mid-sized greenhouse. Harry would come up and watch him work and tell him about his training with England’s minor Quidditch league, and Neville understood that they were both hiding from the world here.

He’d received job offers from everyone and their cat. Offers for jobs for which he wasn’t the least bit qualified. Harry, on the other hand, was lucky he was rich, because no one was particularly interested in him lately, unless it had something to do with Neville. The fact that Harry was a wiz on his broom was the only thing that had gotten him into the minor league, and he had to scramble with the rest of the Quidditch masses for potential positions in the national leagues. It was the strangest reverse of fates, Neville thought, that someone as good-looking as Harry attracted no attention, and himself… Well, he’d lost weight in training for the war, and gained some muscle and grown a few more inches, but he still considered himself rather awkward looking, not particularly anyone’s dream, and it shocked him to find his face on the cover of Teen Witch magazine, with the words Hunky Heroes and Why We Love Them dancing around his head.

Heroism had its perks, though, because now his cabbages sold really rather well, and he had no problems whatsoever buying restricted plants.

And, as it turned out, Harry quite liked the anonymity. His scar had faded to near nothing, just a hint that could be seen if you knew what to look for and looked closely. Harry cut his hair short, back from his face, traded in his famous glasses for contact lenses, and no one pointed or stared or stopped him on the street. No one really noticed at all.

Neville thought they were all idiots, because obviously, the new haircut made Harry look incredible, all big green eyes and amazing cheekbones. What were they all on, anyway? Somebody ought to notice. It just didn’t do for someone like Harry to be alone. Him, that was normal, but Harry… Someone really ought to look at him more.

 

Ron and Hermione got married six months and eight days after the fall of Voldemort. Hermione was already four months pregnant, but no one was supposed to know that. She was beautiful, Neville thought. She looked good with her hair in short curls about her face, and any fool could see that Ron was head over heels in love with her.

Harry was the best man.

Ginny was the maid of honour.

Neville just went to the wedding, though he had spent four hours that morning helping Harry talk Ron down from a panic attack, and then spent an hour convincing Harry that he didn’t look like a total idiot in his maroon formal robes (some sort of inside joke, apparently). Harry could pull them off actually, rather well, Neville had told him, and his arm still tingled from where Harry had put his hand as he thanked him.

Unfortunately, Neville wasn’t the only one who thought Harry looked rather well.

Ginny had been particularly attentive all night.

Neville drank his fourth glass of punch (heavily spiked, drink slowly) and ignored the churning sense of dread in his stomach. Ginny was beautiful, of course. No maroon robes for her; she wore a blue that matched her eyes and made her hair shine. She laughed as she danced with Harry, her hand on Harry’s arm, just above his elbow. His hand was on the small of her back. He was smiling. Neville tipped back his head and drained his cup.

A hand tapped his shoulder and he turned to find Luna beside him, in purple robes, her hair piled in fat, sausage curls on her head. She tipped her head at him, blinked her eyes, and asked, “Want to dance?”

Neville opened his mouth to refuse. He didn’t dance, didn’t like to dance, couldn’t dance, had two left feet, was clumsy and ungraceful and awkward, but when sound actually emerged from his throat, he said, “Sure.”

Luna couldn’t dance much better than he did. They stepped all over each other’s feet, bumped into the other couples, had to clutch at each other to keep from ending up face-first on the floor, but it didn’t matter. Luna giggled the third time he tripped over his feet. He laughed when she tried to spin and ended up tangled in her robes. He spun her and had to chase after her when she didn’t come back. She tried to dip herself and ended up arse-down on the ground. They grinned at one another and kept it up, until they were both bruised and certainly the center of attention. He’d always had fun with Luna. He liked the way she didn’t care at all what people thought of her. He wished he were more like her. Less crazy, certainly, but still so… obliviously confident.

Neville finally managed to successfully dip her, and their audience burst into riotous applause. Luna blinked at him, and he grinned and shrugged, and they both turned to bow to their fans. As Neville straightened, he found Harry staring at him, and suddenly, the punch caught up to him, and he darted away toward the men’s toilet.

He emptied his stomach of his dinner and his two helpings of wedding cake, and he groaned, leaning heavily on the bowl of the toilet. Perfect end to a perfect evening, he thought to himself, and debated apparating straight from the stall to his bed in Aberdeen. He’d send Luna an owl in the morning.

“Neville?”

Neville suppressed a groan, but Harry seemed to hear it and came straight to his stall. Neville turned his head and could see Harry’s feet on the other side of the door.

“Neville, are you alright?”

“I’m fine,” Neville lied. He reached for toilet paper and wiped his face, and then flushed, looking away before he got sick again. “I’m fine,” he said again, because Harry hadn’t left yet. He didn’t want to face him. “Just give me a minute. I’ll be back to the party.”

Harry’s feet turned, but he didn’t leave. He walked over to the sinks and then, Neville knew by sound, knew by his personality, he hopped up onto the counter to wait for him. Harry’d ruin his trousers, probably get soapy water down the back of his robes. He certainly wouldn’t leave until Neville emerged from his hiding place. Neville sighed again, swiped at his face again, just to be sure, patted down his robes, and stepped out.

Harry’s feet swung idly and he looked up at Neville.

“Feeling better?”

Neville didn’t answer. Stupid question. He moved to the sink next to Harry and washed his hands and rinsed out his mouth, and then jerked away as Harry placed his hand on Neville’s forehead. Harry just looked at him. The maroon robes should have been stupid, but they brought out his green eyes and set off red tones in his dark hair. Neville swallowed and looked away.

“You and Luna, huh?”

It took Neville’s brain a second or two to make sense of that. He looked up again. “Huh?”

Harry’s face was shuttered. “You and Luna. I didn’t know.”

“Me and Luna, what?”

Harry blinked. “You’re, you know… Together.”

“Me and _Luna_?”

“Yeah…” A small wrinkle appeared between Harry’s eyebrows. “I thought… you two looked like…”

Neville laughed. “Me and Luna. No. No, no, no. Luna is madly in love with…” Neville chuckled. “You won’t believe it, but with Moaning Myrtle.”

“ _Myrtle_?”

Neville grinned and shook his head, loving the look of absolute incomprehension on Harry’s face. “Yeah. Myrtle’s living in Luna’s bathroom now.”

“How do they…?” Harry cut himself off with a wave of his hand. “Wait, don’t. I don’t want to know.” He shook his head and then looked at Neville again, and Neville swallowed reflexively at the intensity suddenly present in Harry’s eyes. “So you aren’t in love with Luna, then.”

“No, I’m…” Neville stopped himself. “No. I’m not.” He tried to smile, tried to laugh this all off. “I suppose you’re going to try to tell me that there isn’t something between you and Ginny.”

“Ginny?” Harry hopped down from the counter, and suddenly, they were standing very close. Very, very close. Neville could see the small flecks of gold in Harry’s green eyes. “Ginny and I are just friends.”

“Are you sure that’s what _she_ thinks?”

Harry shook his head. Did he move closer? Neville fought the urge to move away. “I don’t care what Ginny thinks. I only care about what…”

Neville’s eyes flicked between Harry’s. “Only care about what…?”

Harry swallowed. He was moving closer. They were… “I only care about what you think, Neville.”

Neville’s fingertips tingled. “What I think?”

“About me.”

“I…” Neville tried to think, but Harry was so close and smelled like vanilla from the cake, and all Neville had to do was just move, just a tiny bit, and they’d be kissing. His hand came up, completely ignoring his brain’s frantic orders of retreat, and gripped Harry’s arm, and a light awoke in Harry’s eyes. He went from wary to hopeful, and Neville didn’t even know he did it. He moved.

Harry tasted like cake. For a moment, he simply savoured this new taste, savoured the soft yet firm touch of Harry’s lips against his own. Harry was breathing erratically and Neville could feel Harry’s heart racing against his hand as it rested on his friend’s back. He pulled back, licked his lips, and Harry’s eyes fluttered open again. His leaf-green eyes had gone dark and wild, and the madness caught. Neville slanted his mouth to delve deeper, get the real taste. Harry moaned and pulled him closer, wrapping his arms tightly about Neville, who trailed his left hand down Harry's back and smiled when he got to Harry’s arse. His robes were damp, and Neville’s fingers burrowed beneath it, finding his trousers thankfully dry, stretched taut across the curve of Harry’s arse, which fit amazingly well into Neville’s hand.

Harry moaned again, sharp and desperate, and his hips thrust sharply forward against Neville.

Neville broke the kiss and brought his head up to stare at Harry. Who stared right back. Eyes suddenly sharply clear with apprehension.

“Neville, I…”

Neville stopped him with another kiss and Harry sank gratefully into it, until Neville pulled back again.

“You want this? You want me?”

Harry nodded. “Yes. I do.”

Hope flared hot in his chest. “I thought… I didn’t think you’d ever… I…” He paused a moment and looked at his friend. “Harry, I’m _Neville_.”

Harry grinned. “I know.”

“And you still want me?”

Harry’s grin softened, and his fingers came up to trace over Neville’s cheeks, thumb drifting tantalizingly over Neville’s mouth. “Neville, I love you. I’m in love with you. Of course I still want you.”

“In…” Harry cut Neville off with another kiss, which was probably the best idea.

Neville moaned as Harry’s hand drifted down, burrowed into his robes, hesitated and then brushed over his erection. He thrust forward and then gasped, “Home.”

Harry nodded and gathered Neville closer, and they apparated together, ending up standing at the foot of Neville’s bed, both gasping a little from the trip. Neville turned them abruptly and pushed Harry down onto his bed, and then laughed at the surprised look on Harry’s face. He quickly divested himself of his robes and the rest of his clothing, feeling a twinge of self-consciousness, because Harry was looking at him and he was naked, and he really wasn’t anything to look at, he knew. Harry was, though, was something to look at, and so he crawled up onto the bed and set his hands to work on Harry’s clothes, pulling and tugging and generally searching for skin.

Harry lay back and let Neville do it, his hips thrusting in slow, lazy circles, his eyes hot and intent on Neville.

“Stupid buttons,” Neville murmured as the shirt refused to open, and Harry smiled and whispered, “Vestimentum exutum.” All the buttons flew open, including the one on his trousers, and the zipper skidded down, and even his shoelaces came untied. Neville lifted an eyebrow and went to work peeling the layers from Harry’s body.

“Nice spell,” he said, moving up to straddle Harry’s hips.

Harry bit his lip and strained beneath him, shifting, his hands fisting themselves into the bed sheets. “Yeah.”

“Where did you learn it?” Neville's hands roved lightly, fingertips tracing from the light stubble of Harry’s chin down the lines of his throat to his hard chest. He flicked his fingers over pale brown nipples and watched Harry arch, panting.

“I, uh…” Harry’s eyes closed and opened, his hands doing the same in the sheets. “Uh, from, uh…” He sucked in a deep breath and his eyes opened again. “From the twins.”

“Fred and George?”

Harry nodded and moaned low as Neville’s fingers skidded down his ribs.

“Did you sleep with them?”

“What?” Harry looked up at him, startled, and then he laughed. “No. No.”

Neville leaned down and whispered, “Did you ever want to?”

Harry hesitated and then answered, “George. When I was fourteen.”

Neville nodded. “And me? When?”

Smiling, Harry’s hands came up and pulled at him, pulling him down to lie on top of him. 

“Since you saved my life at the Ministry.” He smiled again and kissed him. “My hero.”

Neville snorted but kissed him back. Ridiculous.

“I’m no hero.”

“You’re everyone’s hero, Neville.”

He shook his head irritably. “Why? I wish someone would tell me why. I didn’t think. You’re the hero, Harry. You spent all those years, all those years thinking about it, living it, enduring it all, and what did I do? I just… He could have been anybody. He was there, it was either me or him, and I killed him. It could have been anyone else. Anyone else could have killed him if they’d been in my place. It could have been you. It should have been you. That doesn’t make me a hero.”

Harry looked at him and Neville flushed, wanting to back down, wanting to hide. He felt like a child, young and stupid, throwing a temper tantrum. He didn’t want Harry to see him that way.

“You are a hero, Neville. You always have been. Ever since you stood up and tried to get Hermione, Ron and I to stop being idiots and going after that troll. Why would I have been better, in your place? Nobody told you how to act or how to be brave -- you just did it. Because you are brave. You are a hero. You just are.”

Neville sighed and bent his head, resting his forehead against Harry’s chest. He could feel his friend’s heartbeat, fast and steady, no different than his own.

“I never wanted to be a hero.”

Harry’s hand came down softly on his head, stroking through his hair. “Neither did I.”

Neville lifted his head and met Harry’s eyes, and, after a moment, his mouth slanted into a self-deprecating smirk. “I guess I ruined the mood.”

Harry smiled and pet his hair back, settling his fingers against the nape of Neville’s neck, and drawing him down to lay a kiss against his brow. “I’m not going anywhere.” He curled his arms around Neville, drawing him down to lie against Harry, head pillowed on his chest, legs tangled. Neville sighed and nestled closer. The alcohol in his system pulled him down, and between it and the sound of Harry’s heart beating under his head, he was asleep in minutes.

 

He felt like shite when he woke up. His head throbbed, his tongue tasted like the mouldy old socks he used for planting seedlings, and his stomach churned.

“Here,” a voice said softly, for which Neville was grateful, and cold glass was pressed against his hand. He opened his eyes, winced, shielding them from the sunlight slitting in from his window, and sat up only enough to take the flask from Harry’s fingers. He downed it without question, doubting very strongly that Harry was going to poison him and not caring even if he was.

He made a face and peered down into the empty flask, wrinkling his nose at the thick, pea-green leftovers. “Ugh, what was that?”

“Snape’s hangover remedy.”

Neville looked up at Harry’s smiling face. “You went to see Snape this morning?”

“It’s the afternoon now, and no, I didn’t. I just chatted him up by floo.”

“You chat up Snape?”

Harry chuckled and took the flask from Neville, stoppered it and set it aside on Neville’s bedside table. “He’s less of a bastard now that Voldemort is gone. You should go see for yourself. He’s practically cuddly in comparison.”

Neville shuddered at the idea of a cuddly Snape. He’d rather hug a porcupine.

“He’s setting up Hogwarts again, him and McGonagall. They’re going to need teachers.”

“And?” Neville sat up, pushing away blankets that felt sticky with drunk sweat. His tongue tasted of the potion: catmint and lemonbalm with a dusky underlay of chalk. He stood from the bed and headed for the small sink in his bedroom, slathering toothpaste onto his toothbrush and setting to work ridding his mouth of foreign tastes.

“And,” Harry followed him across the room and leaned against the wall beside the sink, seemingly oblivious to Neville’s mouthful of white foam. “They’ve offered me a spot as the Quidditch coach.”

Neville spat into the sink and swiped at his mouth. “Not the Defence professor?”

Harry’s mouth quirked. “Me? No. I’m the Boy Who Lived But Didn’t Kill, remember? I’ve lost my reputation.”

“They aren’t going to offer the position to me, are they?” Neville felt a sharp flutter of fear at that. He couldn’t teach Defence. Boggarts still managed to scare the socks off him, even when he dressed them up like his Gran. Or his Aunt Bertha.

“No,” Harry smiled at him and reached over, flicking away toothpaste from the corner of his mouth. Neville’s lips tingled. “Herbology, actually.”

“Huh?”

Harry smiled again, full on dazzling. He couldn’t know the true power of that smile, couldn’t possibly. He wouldn’t use it so freely if he did. “Snape wants to offer you the spot as Herbology professor.”

“Me?”

“Yes, you.”

“But, I…” Neville drifted off and considered it, seriously considered it. Why not? To have full run of all the greenhouses and the gardens? What kind of fool would he be to turn that down? He looked up again and found Harry, still with that damned charming smile of his. “Go back to Hogwarts?”

Harry shrugged lightly and took his toothbrush from his fingers, tossing it blindly into the sink. Both his hands came up and framed Neville’s face, and Neville couldn’t breathe for a moment, and when their lips met, Neville thought, _What kind of fool would I be to turn this down?_

* * *

Ten years to that Autumn later, and Neville has to remind himself that patience is a virtue. Young Harriet Weasley has once again managed to wake his Purple Singing Nettle, and its piercing song is enough to cause all his students to dart for the exit. Neville curls his finger under the Nettle’s spiked head, stroking gently until the song stutters to silence and the Nettle settles back into assuaged sleep. He bends and retrieves Harriet from under the table and pats her frazzled red hair, and together they go out to herd his class back together.

Neville glances up as a shadow passes over his face, and he smiles, watching Harry dust the clouds on his way back to the pitch, two adventurous students in tow. Harriet tilts back her head and grins, waving, despite that Harry has already gone too far to see. Neville crouches to her height and her arms weave around his neck, and he thinks that next Christmas, when his parents return from their trip to Australia and the whole mass of them are piled into the Weasley Burrow like kittens, he might let Harry tell the story of Neville, the hero again.

**Author's Note:**

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